Excerpt

The Price Of Passion

bySusan Sizemore

(From Avon - January 2001)

Had she the power, Cleo would have swept the room clear of everyone
but herself and Evans with an imperious gesture. She'd held her
breath when she first walked in, afraid to look around in case
he wasn't here. Aunt Jenny had fussed about what she wore the
whole way to the ball, while her father, for once noticing her
mood, kept trying to draw her into inane conversation. Both Saida
and Annie wanted her opinion on how they looked. She'd ignored
them all and walked away from them and the demands they put on
her when they entered the manor house.

All she wanted was Angel. All she'd ever wanted was Angel.

All she'd been able to think about on the short carriage ride
up to the manor house was what she would say to Angel. But there
was nothing but a blank spot in her mind, only the glowing core
of desire that burned like the desert sun. Outside the carriage
and her own private pandemonium the rain had stopped and the evening
was clear, the stars overhead bright and lovely, but for the occasional
scud of a cloud across the waning moon. It was a beautiful night
for a ball, but her only reason for walking into the party was
because it was the place where Azrael Evans was to be found.

When she saw him at last, her breathing stopped for a few crucial
moments. In a room full of fine, bonnie Scotsmen, she saw Azrael
Evans and her mind filled with the dark, sleek and predatory image
of Horus the Hawk. This impression cleared quickly enough, but
Angel remained, a tall, black-haired man with intense dark eyes,
a confident, scoundrel's air, and a sinful mouth. He was also
graced with a brilliant tailor whose work had done a fine job
of setting off Angel's wide shoulders and chest, narrow waist,
and strong, long legs. He was impeccable, perfect. There wasn't
a man in the room, or in the world, to match him in looks and
style. She doubted there was a woman at the ball who could resist
such temptation.

Not that she was going to give them the chance.

She smiled faintly. She had been jealous of Angel before. She'd
written off her reaction to rumors that circulated around the
small European community in Cairo as disgust at his wasting his
life. The truth was, she admitted, she'd been a green-eyed monster
whether she'd known it or not.

Then all of a sudden she was surrounded by people, smiling, laughing,
complimenting her, kissing her hand and offering to fetch her
punch, a plate, the stars. That was Professor Hill, being facetious.
She didn't want any of them near her, but they trapped her all
the same. It felt as if she might have to claw her way through
a pile of people to get to the one man in the room that meant
anything to her. She didn't understand. Then Angel deigned to
saunter over to the rear of the crowd at last, and loomed over
the lot of them, tall man that he was, and she looked up at him
and said something inane.

"I'm here," he answered. "You're fashionably late."

Music began to play on the other side of the room, and Cleo became
aware of Professor Hill holding out his hand. He gave Angel a
triumphant glance before he said, "Remember that I asked
for you to put me first on your dance card for the ball at the
Chancellor's reception the other night, Miss Fraser?"

She vaguely remembered a conversation about the ball. "I've
had lessons, but I've never waltzed with a man before," she
told Hill.

"Her dancing master was a eunuch," Evans said.

"Aunt Jenny isn't a-" Hill was still waiting for her
to take his hand, and she hadn't gone to all that trouble to get
Annie to the ball to embarrass her sister now. "Are you sure
you want to take the risk of my tripping over you, Professor?"

"She has large feet for a woman of her size," Angel
interjected from a safe spot behind, looking over the shoulders
of two young men in Highland dress. "But she is the finest
dancer I've ever seen," he added when she flashed a look
of outrage at him. His glittering black gaze caught and held hers
for a moment, full of teasing humor. She thought there might be
pride in his look, as well, and was that a hint of jealousy?

Good Lord, him jealous of her? How delightful.

She let the historian from Edinburgh lead her out of the sea of
young highlanders surrounding her.

A few moments later she saw Angel on the dance floor, with Davida
MacLean held confidently in his arms. He had obviously
danced the waltz before, and so had Davida, from the easy way
she fitted into Angel's embrace and followed his lead in the heady,
swirling steps of the dance. Cleo forgot all about making Angel
jealous, and concentrated on hating him and the Honorable Davida
MacLean equally. Professor Hill she barely noticed at all. The
music did nothing but serve to emphasis Angel's masculine grace
and power as he guided another woman around the small space set
aside as a dance floor.

Nor was Cleo the only woman who couldn't take her eyes off him.
She was too aware of all the others who took note of the handsome
American in their midst, of how they exchanged looks and talked
behind their fans as he went by. He would be considered quite
a catch to some of the unattached young women here, she supposed,
with a taste of bitterness in her mouth. What if he returned interest
toward some proper woman from the academic community that could
help advance his career? It had never occurred to her that anyone
might set their cap for him, but why not? He was not only handsome,
he was brilliant, with an exciting hint of mystery and adventure
about him. Perhaps he might want a woman of good family and moral
purity to make a home for him and have his babies.

Have his babies? She bridled at the thought of any woman having
Angel Evans's children but her.

"Miss Fraser?"

"What?"

Hill's gulp was audible. "You're snarling."

Cleo became aware that her lips were drawn ferociously back in
fury.

"What's wrong?" Hill asked. "Did I step on your
foot?"

"No." Cleo did her best to smile at the man she was
dancing with. "I always look like this when I waltz."

"You said you'd never waltzed before." When she turned
a fierce look on him, Hill added, "Perhaps it would be safer
if Dr. Evans and I changed partners."

"Is it that obvious?"

She realized how handsome Hill was as he smiled, and told her,
"To everyone who has met either of you in the last few days."
He sighed. "Still, I'd heard of your feud when I was in Aleppo.
Evans got drunk and told me some of your history. He was convinced
you hated him."

"He was right." He thought about her when they were
apart?

"But that didn't stop you from loving him. Very similar emotions,
love and hate." He sighed again. "Still, when I met
you I nursed some hopes."

Cleo's brows came down in puzzlement. "Of what?"

He shook his head. "You've never considered another man but
him, have you?"

"Not since I was sixteen," she admitted, and looked
over Hill's shoulder to get a glimpse of Angel and Davida MacLean.
"But it looks like he has other ideas."

"That's how it starts," she said, remembering the night
before. "With a dance."

"We're dancing."

She smiled at him. "This isn't dancing."

"You're breaking my heart."

"Ladies named Cleopatra have a reputation for doing that."

He laughed. "Why don't you run off with me, Miss Fraser,
in your lovely scarlet dress and your head full of more wit than
any dozen men in this room?" The music stopped and they came
to a stop in the center of the crowded dance floor, but Hill did
not release his hold on her waist. "Would you like to come
away with me?" he asked. "Or would you rather I fetch
you some punch?"

"Neither," she answered, and stepped back.

She heard him say, "I was afraid you'd say that," as
she turned in search of Angel.

She was just in time to see Lady Alison introduce him to a beautiful
red haired young woman wearing a sash of Leslie tartan over her
white gown. Cleo marched up to his side before the introductions
were finished. She put her hand on Angel's arm, and when he looked
her way she said, "We're at a Highland ball, Dr. Evans."

"I have noticed that, Miss Fraser."

"You are an historian, are you not?"

He rubbed his jaw, his expression both amused and puzzled. "I
like to think I know some history."

She hated that they were constantly surrounded by people. Egypt
contained far more sand, rock and ruins than people, and holding
conversations was so much easier when they were the only ones
around. But she had things to say to Dr. A. David Evans and she
was going to say them now, before her courage deserted her. "Do
you know any Highland history? The Fraser Clan motto, perhaps?"

"I'm afraid I've never heard your family motto."

"'I am ready'."

Evans was warmed by the fire in Cleo's eyes and by the determined
look on her face. He lived for that familiar light of battle in
her eyes. "You are ready? For what?"

"That's the clan motto," Lady Alison explained.

Cleo was the most amazingly beautiful woman in the room, in the
world. It wasn't just the vivid, daring dress and the way it showed
off her high, round breasts and molded her slender waist. It was
everything. He forgot that he had decided to seduce her for the
sake of finding the Alexandrian treasure, and simply decided to
seduce her. "And I am ready means ?"

"Exactly what you think it does," she answered, and
took him by the arm. "Let us have a look at Sir Edward's
garden, and I'll explain more about the Fraser Clan to you."

She gave a firm tug, and he went without any protest, barely aware
of walking through the crowded room and out the open French doors
with her. He was aware only that they were arm in arm, that his
heart was racing, and that his body was tight with need - and
that was as much as he could handle until he found that they were
alone together in the fragrant shadows of a thick rose arbor.

Then he pulled her to him and kissed her, and she fitted her body
against his and met and matched his ardor in a way that scorched
away the last vestiges of coherent thought for a very long time.